Ride Away

by Smith, Cotton

  “I told you that your business wasn’t welcome, Mr. Corrigan,” Virdin said, crossing his arms and trying to look intimidating.

  “Heard that.” Deed walked over to a table displaying big silk scarves, neatly stacked and folded. He picked up three—one, crimson; one, pink; and one, turquoise. Setting them aside, he selected two more—one in pink; the other, green.

  Turning to Virdin, Deed asked if he had any dolls. Stunned, the man pointed at a nearby shelf where three dolls were sitting. He examined them and took the middle one with blond hair and dressed in a blue gingham dress with a white apron.

  “Get me six sacks, Virdin. Small sacks.”

  The surprised man went to the counter and returned with the requested brown sacks. Deed took them, placed the doll inside the first and then slid each scarf inside a separate sack. He dropped three gold coins at the man’s feet.

  “Keep the difference, Virdin.”

  Turning, he heard scuffling, followed by a fierce curse.

  “Hold these for me, Virdin.” Deed handed him back the filled sacks, pulled his holstered Remington, and ran to the store doorway. Virdin watched him go, then picked up the coins.

  On the boardwalk, Sear Georgian stood laughing and kicking at an unconscious Taol. He was huge, more creature than man with ham-like fists and broad shoulders.

  Cocking his gun, Deed growled, “Back away from my friend, mister.”

  The brute of a man stepped backward and grinned, showing a mouth of broken and missing teeth. His face was heavily pockmarked with earlier acne and his thinning hair was slicked back and long.

  “Ah, Deed Corrigan. Ya gonna shoot me? I ain’t carryin’.” He raised his fists, then kicked Taol in the ribs again. “He ’tacked me, ya know. Jes’ defendin’ myse’f.”

  Watching them from ten feet away, an older, stoop-shouldered woman with a blue scarf tied around her head, revealing mostly white curls declared, “He did not, you brute. And you know it, mister. You hit him from the back. I saw it.”

  Georgian laughed and a string of phlegm wiggled from one nostril, then jumped back. “So what are you gonna do about it, Corrigan? I’m gonna kick this Mex to death.”

  Deed knew he had no business fighting anyone, much less a thug like Sear Georgian, who was three inches taller and forty pounds heavier. But if he didn’t step in, the man was going to beat on Taol until he was broken. Georgian was unarmed, so any use of a gun by Deed would be tantamount to murder, no matter the circumstances. There was nothing left to do but try to stop him. The anger growing within him was actually welcoming the idea.

  He looked back into the store, uncocked his gun, and said, “Virdin, take this gun for a few minutes. I won’t need it until later. Got something to do.”

  The storekeeper hurried to the doorway and took the heavy gun, stunned by his desire to help and even more amazed by his own statement, “Be careful. He’ll kill you, Mr. Corrigan.”

  Deed nodded.

  “Now yer gonna die, Corrigan,” Georgian growled and delivered a roundhouse swing at Deed’s head as he turned back.

  The old woman screamed her alarm.

  Deed’s left arm blocked the powerful blow, taking it full force on his wounded arm. It felt like a club had slammed against him. His arm went numb and the wound began to bleed. Georgian followed with a high right that Deed managed to duck and counter with an opened right hand to the big man’s Adam’s apple.

  Georgian grabbed his throat with both hands, gasping for air. If Deed had hit him harder, it would have killed him. Still, the blow gave Deed time to set himself. He realized the man was a brawler used to winning by sheer strength and the fear of his opponent, but he was no fighter. But any one of Georgian’s blows would be enough to knock him out. That would mean destruction of his body or death.

  Moving in front of the unconscious Taol, Deed balanced himself in a wide stance and drove his right leg into Georgian’s midsection like an axe while the bigger man tried to clear his throat of the earlier blow. Deed’s wounded left leg buckled and he nearly fell.

  Georgian pushed Deed away and rattled him with a thundering right to his head that brought blood to his mouth. Deed countered with a right hook to Georgian’s face that popped the skin with a stomach-turning sound, cracking a red line down his cheek. Screaming obscenities, Georgian swung fiercely, but missed.

  Moving away from the blow, Deed tripped on Taol and fell. Grinning, the bloody-faced big man ran at him, but the young gunfighter spun to his right, extending his right arm to balance himself on his hand. Rotating his hips, he drove his aching left leg into the bigger man’s stomach. As soon as his boot hit Georgian, Deed jumped to his feet. His spurs jingled as he stood and tried to ignore the pain in his leg and arm, and the roar in his head. Georgian was struggling with the pain in his stomach.

  A small crowd had gathered beside the old woman to watch the brawl, but no one made any attempt to stop it.

  Deed staggered the bigger man with a vicious back slap of his open right hand to Georgian’s face. Georgian launched a wild swing that thundered against Deed’s shoulder and made his knees wobble. Seeing his weakened position, Georgian made a vicious grab for Deed’s face to gouge out his eyes. As the huge man’s hands reached Deed’s face, the young gunfighter’s left elbow hit Georgian’s nose like a sharp axe cutting into a log. Georgian staggered sideways. Deed moved in, missing with his right fist, but connecting with a left to the man’s stomach.

  Ignoring Deed’s blow to his midsection, Georgian rushed and grabbed him, squeezing against his back. Deed gasped, felt an awful pain run down his spine, then bent his knees as best he could and rammed his head upward into Georgian’s exposed chin. The big man staggered backwards, releasing Deed. The young gunfighter followed with another open-handed jab to his stomach and Georgian whimpered.

  Swinging and missing, Georgian brought up his knee toward Deed’s groin, but Deed spun to the side, letting the blow slam into his thigh. It still made him gasp. Deed’s anger was total and his rage took over. It was time to end this. If the fight went longer, the man’s sheer strength would wear him down.

  Rebalancing himself, Deed drove his fist into the man’s chest, right at Georgian’s heart. He forced his left arm to raise and half-block Georgian’s wicked swing. It was losing power; even so, the blow was hard enough to make Deed wince.

  Deed managed to back off, then went into a half crouch, ignoring the pain in his leg and arm. Hate was making him fierce and powerful. His left arm swung at his side, too weak to raise again. Georgian’s face was a mass of blood and skin and he was definitely moving slower. He lunged at Deed in a desperate attempt to grab him again.

  Deed’s opened right hand drove into Georgian’s stomach, then quickly thudded against his neck. The big man stumbled and as he fell, Deed grabbed a handful of Georgian’s hair and held him as his right elbow smashed into the man’s face. Georgian thudded against the boardwalk and didn’t move.

  Deed weaved and caught himself against the store’s support beam. Certain that Georgian wasn’t going to move, he turned to Taol, now trying to stand. A cut above Deed’s eye was bringing a string of salty blood into it; he wiped it away.

  “Can you ride, Taol?”

  “Sí. Did you kill him?”

  “Don’t think so, but he won’t feel very good for a long while,” Deed said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  He helped the young Mexican to his saddle; Taol’s grimace indicated cracked ribs. A white-faced Virdin walked from the store, holding the sacks, now carefully folded together and tied with the doll sack on the bottom, and Deed’s revolver and ceremoniously handed them to Deed.

  “Mr. Corrigan, that was impressive, sir,” Jephrum Virdin said. “I didn’t think anyone could stop him like that.” He took a deep breath and added, “I never did like Sear Georgian.”

  Heaving for breath, Deed mouthed his thanks, taking the gun first in his right hand. His left arm was stiff, but he managed to take hold of the string holding the sacks togethe
r. He looked down at his hands; both were bloody and sore.

  Running down the boardwalk came Sheriff Macy Shields. He stutter-stepped as he approached the prone body of Sear Georgian. “What the hell?”

  Watching him from his saddle, Deed held his handgun against the pommel. The energy from battle was leaving him fast.

  “You’re under arrest, Corrigan, for assaulting a citizen of Wilkon,” Shields bellowed.

  Virdin waved his arms. “No, Macy, that cannot be. I have to live in this town and Sear started it all. He just wasn’t good enough to end it.” He stared at Shields. “Go and get the doctor. Georgian is badly hurt.” He couldn’t resist looking at Deed. “Ride away, Mr. Corrigan, and your friend, Mr. Sanchez. You will not be bothered more this day.”

  “Maybe, but we’re not turning our backs on dirtbags like your so-called sheriff here.” Deed raised his gun so Shields could see it. “Shields, throw your gun in that horse tank.” He shifted the sacks to rest in front of him on the saddle.

  Shields glared at him. “I won’t do that.”

  Deed cocked his gun. It felt heavy and he added his left hand to its support, which didn’t want to move quickly. “I won’t ask again. I’m tired of what Bordner is doing. So killing you is just a start to making it right again.”

  Shields hesitated, then tossed the gun into the tank. The weapon splashed and sank.

  “Now, that hideaway. In your back waistband. Bring it out with two fingers.”

  Shields grumbled and slowly complied. The second gun, a short-barreled Colt, splashed into the dirty water and sank.

  Deed told Taol to pull away and the Mexican nodded and eased his horse away from the hitchrail. As Deed followed, a young woman ran toward him. It was Sally Cummins.

  “Oh, Deed, are you all right?” she asked with widened eyes. She was wearing a light brown, fitted dress with a short waistcoat. The color of the cloth matched her hair, pulled back into a bun.

  “Yes, Miss Cummins, I’m all right.”

  “Will you come to see me . . . soon? I miss you, Deed.”

  “Guess that’ll be up to Agon Bordner and his gang.” He blinked and saw Atlee Forsyth and wished she was here.

  Putting her hand on his leg, she bit her lower lip. “Oh, this whole thing is awful. Just awful. I wish everyone could get along.”

  “That’s a nice wish,” Deed said, touched the brim of his hat with his right hand still holding his gun, and pulled his horse away from the hitchrail. “Take care of yourself, Miss Cummins.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  At the Forsyth relay station, the morning El Paso stage rumbled into the yard right on time. Pervious Findel was the driver, a happy, red-haired man known for singing while he drove. Most said he sang well. A former Union artillery captain during the war, Pervious was dependable and always on time, or ahead of it. Just like today.

  “A tear was in her eye . . .

  I said, I’ve come from Dixie land . . .

  Susanna, don’t you break down and cry . . .

  I said, Oh, Susanna . . .

  Now, don’t you cry for me . . .

  ’Cause I come from Alabama

  with my banjo on my knee.”

  He timed the ending of his song as he reined up in the station yard.

  Billy Lee Montez and Hermann Beinrigt hurried out with a new team. Helping them was a determined Benjamin.

  “All out, folks. Some good eatin’s here. Hot coffee too,” Pervious hollered as he slammed on the heavy brake. “We’ll be rollin’ again in fifteen minutes so don’t you all dally.”

  Passengers emerged from both sides of the coach, stretched, and headed for the station. At the doorway, Atlee Forsyth waited to greet them. The last two passengers to emerge were familiar: James Hannah and Rebecca Tuttle.

  The bespectacled gunman recognized Billy and Hermann and reintroduced himself. “Good day to you, men. I’m James Hannah. Came through here with Deed Corrigan a while back.” He looked at the German farmer, smiled, and said, “Believe you caught a nasty arrow on that trip, sir. Good to see you up and around.”

  “Danke. It ist gut to see you, Herr Hannah.”

  Pushing his glasses back on his nose, Hannah continued, “You remember Miss Tuttle, I’m certain. She’s my bride, Mrs. James Hannah.”

  Rebecca blushed and Hannah grinned.

  “Where’s Deed? I want to see him,” the gunman asked, waving his hand toward the barn.

  The German farmer tugged on the bridle of the lead horse and told him about Deed returning to his ranch.

  “You folks better get somethin’ to eat,” Pervious yelled as he climbed down from the driver’s box. “Gonna be a long spell before there’s more grub. None like this, I reckon.”

  Hannah nodded. “Thanks. But we’re getting off here.”

  “Thought you folks were going to Kansas.”

  “Yeah, we are. But I’ve got some business here first.”

  From the station doorway, Atlee Forsyth watched as the passengers came toward where she was standing. For an instant, she expected to see Deed Corrigan step out of the stage.

  She missed Deed, thought of him often, and felt guilty about it. She should be missing her late husband and she did. But her heart was looking for something to heal the loss he left, and Deed was that answer. She knew it was wrong to feel this way, but she did.

  “Oh, Deed—” she caught herself and looked back at Olivia Beinrigt in the main room setting the table. “Stage is here, Olivia.”

  “Gut. Ve ist ready.”

  The last couple to get out were familiar to Atlee: James Hannah and Rebecca Tuttle. The two of them walked slowly toward the station with the bespectacled gunman doing most of the talking.

  At the doorway, Atlee greeted the all the passengers warmly and motioned them into the main room. Then turning to the couple, said, “Well, how good to see you again, Mr. Hannah . . . and you, too . . . Miss—”

  “It’s Mrs.—Mrs. Hannah,” Rebecca said with a wide smile.

  Hannah blushed and asked, “Is Deed around?”

  It was Atlee’s turn to blush. “Oh, I’m sorry. Uh, Mr. Corrigan went back to his ranch some time ago.”

  Frowning, Hannah asked if the ranch was far. Atlee explained the location, then excused herself to help with the other guests. Hannah joined Rebecca inside the station. She was talking with Olivia.

  “Would it be possible to rent a buckboard or a carriage?” Hannah interrupted. “My wife and I need to go into town.”

  Rebecca looked surprised. “I thought we were going on to Kansas, honey.”

  “We are, dear. But I need to see Deed Corrigan. It’s important.”

  “Certainly, dear.”

  Atlee walked over from the table with a coffeepot in her hand. “Mr. Hannah, if you promise to return it soon, I can let you borrow one of our buckboards.” She smiled. “Or you can wait here, Mr. Corrigan is expected back sometime this week. He’s asked Benjamin to help with their roundup. And my Elizabeth is going along to play with his brother’s children.”

  Hannah took off his glasses and cleaned them with a white handkerchief from his pocket.

  “Where would we sleep?” he asked, returning the glasses to his nose.

  Atlee said they could sleep on the employees’ bed, the one not being used by the Beinrigts.

  “That would be excellent. We’ll wait.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Blue Corrigan saw the riders clearing the ridge as he walked out of the barn. Late morning sun was trying to warm the day. He knew in one glance it was Deed and Holt, leading a third horse with a blanket-wrapped body strapped over it. Two days ago, Tina Sanchez had ridden over to tell them what was happening. The news was most appreciated; both Blue and Silka were getting worried. Hearing that Holt was with Deed gave Blue a warm feeling that he couldn’t quite describe. And seeing them now made him raise his eyes to the sky and thank the Lord.

  He yelled at Silka who was shoeing the paint horse called Warrior. The animal had gradu
ally settled into a solid working horse and could outrun any horse on the ranch, except the sorrel stallion, Captain.

  Willy and Harmon had gone to inspect one of their line cabins and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow afternoon. Little Jake was in the bunkhouse recovering from his gunshot wound.

  “Silka, it’s Deed!”

  The older man hurried the horse to the closest corral and let it loose. “Aiee, we are blessed.” He continued to where Blue was standing watching the riders.

  “Is that Holt with him?” Silka said, putting a hand to his forehead to block out the autumn sun.

  “Yes.”

  “It is a good truth then. They bring a body,” Silka said.

  “I’m afraid it’s Chico.”

  “Aiee. I remember.”

  Blue and Silka waved and Deed and Holt returned the greeting. In minutes, the two brothers reined up alongside Blue and Silka. Happiness was evident even in Silka’s usually stoic face. They dismounted and shook hands.

  As they walked the horses to the barn, Deed and Holt took turns telling them about what had happened to the posse, to the outlaws chasing a wounded Deed, the second attack on the Lazy S, and the problems in town. Blue and Silka knew most of it already, but not the events in town. They had stayed for the Sanchez family’s burial of their son and the two vaqueros.

  Deed said, “We brought Chico’s body home.”

  “That was the right thing to do,” Blue responded.

  Silka studied Deed. “How bad is your ear, son?”

  Touching his bandaged ear, Deed said, “Oh, it’s all right. I was lucky.”

  “Looks like it,” Blue said and patted Deed’s shoulder, then turned to Holt. “Mighty glad you came along when you did Holt. And mighty glad to have you with us.”

  Holt smiled and touched the feather in his hat. “Took some time for me to get smart.”

  Deed led his buckskin toward the barn, his limp barely noticeable. The blood that had been on his pant leg and shirtsleeve were barely noticeable. The Sanchez women had done a good job of cleaning them. He was tired, but it felt good to be home.